Pocketful of Sand
Page 34
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Panic skitters through me. I grab my sweater from the couch as I pass, throwing it over my head as I race down the hall. I find Emmy in her bed, stiff as a board and thrashing her head back and forth on her pillow. It’s as though she can’t move her body, only her head. That’s how I know what she’s dreaming of.
I draw her into my arms, holding her against my chest. “You’re safe, Emmy. You’re safe, baby. It’s just me. It’s just momma.”
I rock her back and forth until she relaxes. It’s almost instantaneous, as it always is. Once my words penetrate her fear, once they break the hold of her nightmare, she goes limp as a rag. Always.
Her scream fades into soft sobs and quiet murmurings. I’ve never been able to understand them. Maybe it’s the way she calms herself. Maybe it’s something she’s telling herself to ground her in reality. I don’t know. I’ll probably never know. I’ve asked her about it before, but she never remembers saying anything.
But she does. She always does.
I don’t let her go until her breathing is deep and even, until I know she’s drifted back into a peaceful sleep in the safety of my arms. Even after I lay her gently back onto her mattress and cover her chilly little arms with the blanket, I don’t leave her side for a long time. It’s not until I see the first fingers of snowy light filtering through a crack in Emmy’s curtain that I remember Cole waiting for me in the next room.
He’s sitting in the chair, fully dressed, watching the hallway with a fathomless expression. When his eyes click up to mine, I stop and we watch each other again. It seems we do that a lot–watch each other, wordlessly. Thinking. Wondering. Imagining.
I walk to the couch and sit facing him, curling my legs up under me. Before I can turn to stare into the fire, Cole speaks. His voice is quiet, yet as intense as a shout. “Are you going to tell me about it?” he asks.
This time, I do turn to look into the flames. I study the way they lick at the blackened logs. I ponder the way they consume with such beauty.
I don’t have to ask what Cole means; I already know. It’s the only thing he can mean. It’s in the air–the haunting voices of our past, the rattling chains of our bonds. The arterial spray of our wounds.
I consider not telling him. I’ve never told anyone, after all. It’s been my own personal albatross, my own personal hell. But I’ll tell him. I know it before I even really make the decision. I know it as surely as I know that the soft velvety material of the couch tickles my bare feet when I wiggle my toes. I don’t know why, but I feel like it’s important that I do. And, for once, I don’t question it to death. I just go with it.
“It’s hard to know who to trust,” I begin with a sigh. Cole doesn’t assure me that I can trust him. He doesn’t beg me to divulge all my secrets. He doesn’t try to convince me to spill my guts. He simply waits. Silently. Rock steady. In true Cole form.
I drag my gaze from the fascinating fire in front of me to the fascinating man across from me. I meet his eyes. I examine them. I dissect them. I search for an agenda, for some plan he might have to hurt me, to hurt Emmy. I find none. I find nothing more than a gentle yet cautious curiosity. It’s his peace within the moment, it’s his unspoken patience, his unshakable steadiness that carves out the dread and replaces it with resolve. Maybe it’s just time to share my load with another human being. Maybe it’s just time to let someone else take the weight, even if it’s only for a few minutes.
“But I’m going to trust you.” Still, he says nothing. He only watches me. Within the silence, though, there’s a solidness, as though the very air whispered to me that Cole is a rock and that I can lean on him as much as I need to. He can take it. Although he’s broken, he’s still strong enough to bear it.
“My parents left for Papua New Guinea when I was fifteen. They were both involved in Doctors Without Borders before I was born. I wasn’t planned. I ended up being a surprise that they weren’t particularly thrilled about. I changed their lives in ways they didn’t want changed. They were never mean to me, but they weren’t able to hide it either. They gave up the fight eventually and left me with my Aunt Lucy so they could do one more tour. Or at least that’s what they said. They sent cards for Christmas and for my birthday every year, but that was it. I haven’t seen them since I was fifteen years old.”
Cole’s eyes drop to my lap where I’m rubbing circles on my thigh with my index finger. A nervous habit. I’m sure he’s figured that out. I can feel all the emotions, all the fear and…aloneness that I’ve fought to overcome creeping back in, like the memories themselves have life. Or that they can steal it.
Cole’s expression is unreadable. I should expect no more. He hides what he’s feeling well. Until he wants it to show.
“Anyway, Lucy is a lawyer. Ambitious. Controlling. Cold. It didn’t really surprise anybody when she married Ryan, a guy ten years younger. She was thirty-five, he was twenty-five. He was an on again/off again underwear model who looked really good in a tux. She was loaded and bought him whatever he wanted. That dynamic worked for them.”
I drop my eyes when I feel the frown tug my eyebrows together. It happens whenever I think about this part. Whenever I have to acknowledge that maybe my parents knew. Although I hope they didn’t. Just the idea that they might’ve known steals my breath for just a few seconds. The sense of betrayal is that intense. I have to concentrate on inhaling, exhaling, inhaling, exhaling, willing myself to calm.
I draw her into my arms, holding her against my chest. “You’re safe, Emmy. You’re safe, baby. It’s just me. It’s just momma.”
I rock her back and forth until she relaxes. It’s almost instantaneous, as it always is. Once my words penetrate her fear, once they break the hold of her nightmare, she goes limp as a rag. Always.
Her scream fades into soft sobs and quiet murmurings. I’ve never been able to understand them. Maybe it’s the way she calms herself. Maybe it’s something she’s telling herself to ground her in reality. I don’t know. I’ll probably never know. I’ve asked her about it before, but she never remembers saying anything.
But she does. She always does.
I don’t let her go until her breathing is deep and even, until I know she’s drifted back into a peaceful sleep in the safety of my arms. Even after I lay her gently back onto her mattress and cover her chilly little arms with the blanket, I don’t leave her side for a long time. It’s not until I see the first fingers of snowy light filtering through a crack in Emmy’s curtain that I remember Cole waiting for me in the next room.
He’s sitting in the chair, fully dressed, watching the hallway with a fathomless expression. When his eyes click up to mine, I stop and we watch each other again. It seems we do that a lot–watch each other, wordlessly. Thinking. Wondering. Imagining.
I walk to the couch and sit facing him, curling my legs up under me. Before I can turn to stare into the fire, Cole speaks. His voice is quiet, yet as intense as a shout. “Are you going to tell me about it?” he asks.
This time, I do turn to look into the flames. I study the way they lick at the blackened logs. I ponder the way they consume with such beauty.
I don’t have to ask what Cole means; I already know. It’s the only thing he can mean. It’s in the air–the haunting voices of our past, the rattling chains of our bonds. The arterial spray of our wounds.
I consider not telling him. I’ve never told anyone, after all. It’s been my own personal albatross, my own personal hell. But I’ll tell him. I know it before I even really make the decision. I know it as surely as I know that the soft velvety material of the couch tickles my bare feet when I wiggle my toes. I don’t know why, but I feel like it’s important that I do. And, for once, I don’t question it to death. I just go with it.
“It’s hard to know who to trust,” I begin with a sigh. Cole doesn’t assure me that I can trust him. He doesn’t beg me to divulge all my secrets. He doesn’t try to convince me to spill my guts. He simply waits. Silently. Rock steady. In true Cole form.
I drag my gaze from the fascinating fire in front of me to the fascinating man across from me. I meet his eyes. I examine them. I dissect them. I search for an agenda, for some plan he might have to hurt me, to hurt Emmy. I find none. I find nothing more than a gentle yet cautious curiosity. It’s his peace within the moment, it’s his unspoken patience, his unshakable steadiness that carves out the dread and replaces it with resolve. Maybe it’s just time to share my load with another human being. Maybe it’s just time to let someone else take the weight, even if it’s only for a few minutes.
“But I’m going to trust you.” Still, he says nothing. He only watches me. Within the silence, though, there’s a solidness, as though the very air whispered to me that Cole is a rock and that I can lean on him as much as I need to. He can take it. Although he’s broken, he’s still strong enough to bear it.
“My parents left for Papua New Guinea when I was fifteen. They were both involved in Doctors Without Borders before I was born. I wasn’t planned. I ended up being a surprise that they weren’t particularly thrilled about. I changed their lives in ways they didn’t want changed. They were never mean to me, but they weren’t able to hide it either. They gave up the fight eventually and left me with my Aunt Lucy so they could do one more tour. Or at least that’s what they said. They sent cards for Christmas and for my birthday every year, but that was it. I haven’t seen them since I was fifteen years old.”
Cole’s eyes drop to my lap where I’m rubbing circles on my thigh with my index finger. A nervous habit. I’m sure he’s figured that out. I can feel all the emotions, all the fear and…aloneness that I’ve fought to overcome creeping back in, like the memories themselves have life. Or that they can steal it.
Cole’s expression is unreadable. I should expect no more. He hides what he’s feeling well. Until he wants it to show.
“Anyway, Lucy is a lawyer. Ambitious. Controlling. Cold. It didn’t really surprise anybody when she married Ryan, a guy ten years younger. She was thirty-five, he was twenty-five. He was an on again/off again underwear model who looked really good in a tux. She was loaded and bought him whatever he wanted. That dynamic worked for them.”
I drop my eyes when I feel the frown tug my eyebrows together. It happens whenever I think about this part. Whenever I have to acknowledge that maybe my parents knew. Although I hope they didn’t. Just the idea that they might’ve known steals my breath for just a few seconds. The sense of betrayal is that intense. I have to concentrate on inhaling, exhaling, inhaling, exhaling, willing myself to calm.
